Diversification #11
I didn’t see myself marrying her.
That’s not—
Her heart stutters, and she looks out the window fast.
There—caught between the weightlessness of wanting, and the suspension of consequences, she sees it: that math again, stark
and clear. The days, the weeks: mornings in bed, work trips, late-night phone calls, time with her friends, evenings with
him, keys in her bag.
The twist of her thoughts, the potential of hope, these things that have been growing brighter, she realizes, day by day,
accumulating; now—as she glances at him, as he grins at a comment Andrew makes—it shifts from something soaring into something
leaden. Tense. A shadow over her shoulder, a weight about to fall.
Having beautiful things means she can lose them.
She’s lost them before.
The car stops in Chelsea. She manages a tight smile as Michael and Andrew get out; warm goodbye from Andrew, a nod from Michael.
The car accelerates, pulling away from the curb: expensive hush, insulated from city traffic, partition closed between them
and his driver Richard, headed downtown.
“That went well,” Aleksandr murmurs. “Thank you for coming.”
Lili looks at him, then.
Oh, the fucking heart sear of it: how much she wants this man, how much she keeps wanting this man.
The familiar rush of lust, the blood-hot physical want—she grasps after that. Nothing else, nothing more—not right now. “Yeah?”
she says. She musters a smile as she rests a hand on his leg, fine wool under her palm. She starts to move her hand higher.
Aleksandr’s gaze darkens—lust—but it remains clear. Intensely clear, fully on her, with things like warmth, and affection,
and respect, and—
Lili leans forward and kisses him.
It’s only been a few hours since she last kissed him, but it’s also been weeks since she’s really touched him. Weeks since
she pressed herself against him, since she wanted to make his skin her own, since she could breathe the same air between their
lips, again and again, until thinking becomes difficult.
He wants her as much as she wants him. She can feel it, she knows it—how fast his hands tangle in her hair, run up her thigh,
slipping under her dress, drawing her closer, kissing her back so hard her heart tightens. They’re almost clumsy with how
eager they are, how much they missed each other, how much they—
A desperate sound slips between her teeth, trying to shield her own mind against new words, a new vocabulary. Aleksandr laughs
softly, misinterpreting her whimper as only an indication of need.
“We’re almost home,” he murmurs, holding her throat as he starts kissing down her neck. “I’m going to make you cry, Lili . . .
have thought about being inside of you every night, every goddamn night—want to make you fucking sob, missed every fucking
part of you—”
“No,” she pants, grasping his collar, pulling his mouth back to hers. “No, no—”
The Maybach rolls to a stop. Lili looks up, disoriented for a second, before realizing they’ve arrived: Tribeca, several minutes from Chelsea.
“Come on,” she breathes, tugging his hand as she opens the car door, not waiting for Richard to help. Urgency disguised as
eagerness, growing anxiety under cover of lust, she pulls him through the foyer.
The elevator closes, and she’s tearing at Aleksandr’s shirt. Mouth fierce against his again, fingers shaking as she wrenches
at his buttons, trying to get at more of him, and he doesn’t try to stop her, doesn’t try to calm her. Instead, he lifts her
into his arms, kissing her with hunger as he pushes her against the elevator wall. Harshly, he tugs her hair free of its bun,
and Lili moans against his lips, at the sharp scatter of pain across her scalp, at the sense that he wants to be inside of
her so much that he’d hurt her to get there, and she wants that, she wants that—the heavy heat of sex, burning her from herself, blinding her to her own thoughts—
With a quiet noise, the elevator arrives, and they’re in the loft. The rush of open space around them, dark, the stretch of
streetlights over the ceiling, but she doesn’t pause for any of it, still kissing him, feet stumbling—before he turns her,
sudden—and there’s the hard hit of the dining table against her hip bones. She looks over her shoulder, confused—why isn’t
his mouth on her, his tongue against hers—
Between her shoulder blades, his firm hand presses down. He bends her over the table, knocking the breath out of her. His
foot kicks her legs apart, spreading her. The hardwood slams under her chest, whorls of driftwood under her frantic palms,
trying to steady herself—
And then, the skim of skin. Slow, and lingering. His lips press against her bare back, slipping down her spine, like every
inch of her is something he needs to taste, needs to touch. An ungodly shiver rides up her vertebrae, under the fresh weight
of exposure, the raw vulnerability of being wanted, in how he holds her down, not letting her do anything but receive.
“Wanted to do this all night,” he breathes, “all fucking night—looking at you—fuck—”
A whine of impatience, like neediness, like desperation, rises up in her throat, but actually—like pain, a tightness in her
stomach, her chest, growing worse at the thought, the thought—
Beneath her dress, his hand drags up her legs, between her thighs.
She’s not wearing underwear, had wanted the lines of the dress to fall right.
When Aleksandr realizes, as his fingers skim over her and come away slick, he stills.
And then, he slides his fingers deeper into her.
She moans. The hot, open press of his mouth moves lower still, down to the small of her back, the dimples at the base of her spine.
She can’t. She can’t just lie here, can’t just let him give things to her—she can’t—
Pushing up with all her strength, Lili turns, scrambling. Silk tangles around her legs, but not caring, she grabs for him
again as she balances on the edge of the table. Under her dress, her skin feels hot enough to disinfect thought, a contrast
with his palms cold from the night, and she tightens her thighs around his waist, needing to draw him closer to chase that.
But as she pushes his shirt off his shoulders, his suit jacket already abandoned somewhere, Aleksandr grasps her face, kissing
her so deep she feels a stutter in her chest, a breath that breaks, and he catches it, again and again, the movement of his
mouth against hers, his tongue, teeth.
“Aleksandr,” she gasps into the kiss, unable to pull away. She scrambles for his belt, palming him through his trousers as
he rucks her dress up—still kissing her too hot, too deep—pushes her dress off her shoulders, silk whispering around her waist.
He lowers his mouth to kiss her collarbones, the slope of her breasts, just as she gets his belt undone. A pattern builds
between the lathe of his tongue against her skin and his hand between her thighs, fingers slipping inside of her again; painfully
familiar touch that makes her head fall back, her hands tangled in his hair, as she tries to breathe, and memorize how he
touches her, what she will try to imitate with her own fingers.
She squeezes her eyes shut. “Don’t,” she moans, even as her hips keep rolling against his hand. “Don’t—I don’t—I don’t want
to come like this—”
“Lili, it’s been weeks—”
But she shakes her head, struggling against him; doesn’t want to come without him, heat burning between their bodies. “Not
like this, no—just fuck me, please—”
“Let me do this for you first—”
“No, no—I can’t wait—Aleksandr, don’t you—don’t you want this? Want me?”
Against her chest, his mouth stills. When he looks up, his gaze is serious with tension; almost close to anger.
Between her thighs, his hand withdraws, skimming up her leg, and then gripping her thigh, hard—tugging her to the edge of the table, he slings her leg over his shoulder, forcing her to fall back flat against the wood.
“You,” he breathes. She feels the hot heaviness of him as he lines himself up against her, the thick slide over how wet she
is. His lips brush against her ankle, resting on his shoulder, still in her stiletto. “You are the only fucking thing I want.”
Lili exhales, just as he thrusts into her.
It’s a burning, pinching stretch, and her exhale becomes a cry. She’s tight, too tight after weeks away, and her body seizes,
struggling. She’s already wet—nearly indecently so, can feel it against her inner thighs, the slick of herself—but too many
days passed, too much urgent tension, too much fear racing through her mind, make it difficult for him to get inside of her.
“Hold still,” he says. He grasps the delicate bones of her ankle, holding her in place, as she tries to give him more space.
He stares down at her, considering the tremble of her thighs, the strain of her body that won’t let him in. His jaw works—motions
she can’t interpret, confusing—before he spits, down onto her cunt.
Lili’s head falls back against the table so hard white bursts across her vision. Her mind bleaches, body loosened in a moment
of disbelief—and the heat of him pushes forward, fully, finally. A high keen rises in her throat, at the feeling of him coming
home, inside of her.
“Blyat,” he mutters, working into her, thrusts that force further each time. “It’s barely been two weeks, how are you still this
tight—fuck, Lili.”
Wincing past the pain, she wills her body to relax, to let her have this—just let her have this. Reaching above her, she grasps the edge of the table, trying to hold onto something, as she starts fucking herself back
onto him. Her thighs shake, toes curling. Already a dark ache bruises inside of her, separate from pleasure. Lifting her hips
off the table, Aleksandr presses deeper. Lili gasps, letting him in.
“Yes, that’s right, little one,” he groans. “There you go, sweetheart—fuck, fuck—”